


Forgotten

by sasha_b



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: Comment Fic, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-31
Updated: 2013-07-31
Packaged: 2017-12-22 00:57:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/907007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Forgotten birthdays.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forgotten

**Author's Note:**

> For comment fic. This is early in the knight's service. I also give Lancelot the last name of "ap Ban," as part of my "fanon."

Lancelot kicks at the fire, putting out its weak light. Darkness pushes in on him, stars blinking on and off like bits of coal in a brazier, falling to the sides of their metal container as the ones below them burn out.

It isn't cold, so he doesn't care. He sits on a fallen log, hand cupping his sharp chin, neatly trimmed goatee tickling his skin and he can feel the two blades he always wears at his back, rising above his head. Hulking shadows he loves more than life, more than breath, more than anything.

More than most things, at any rate.

Snorting a sigh, he blinks drunkenly and watches the sky - after a moment, a star shoots from horizon to horizon, and he cocks his head, lifting it, watching the omen brighten his corner of Britain for only a moment. He wonders if his family see it, and he wonders if his mother points to it, holding his sister in her arms, the little girl oooohing at the sight. _Then_ he wonders if he's drunk enough.

He lowers his head, but rests a hand on the butt of his sheathed dirk at footsteps that crackle behind him. Forearmed is forewarned, or some such bullshit that Bors would spout. Better safe than sorry. Better alone than -

"I see I needn't have brought this," Arthur's voice is wry, and the commander (so green, all of them) sits next to Lancelot on the overturned log. "Where is the rest of the one you'd brought with you?"

"In here," Lancelot pats his stomach, letting go of the knife blade. "I'll take this one to join it, if you don't mind." He wraps long fingers around the neck of the bottle of wine and uncorks it with his teeth. "Thank you, commander, for adding to my collection."

He drinks and ignores Arthur's confused look, the other man's eyebrows crashing into one another with a quick movement. "Of what?"

"Of drunken nights and the memories they make," Lancelot slurs. He tilts the bottle back and imbibes more, frowning at Arthur as he takes the bottle back. 

"At least share, you greedy bastard."

That brings a low laugh, and Lancelot stretches his boots out toward the non-existant fire, watching the sky again, his melancholia rising like the waves on that fucking sea they'd had to cross to get to this fucking island. Ten more years. Ten more and he's not sure he can make it and he opens his eyes and makes to stand, Arthur's presence suddenly uncomfortable with his large personality and his large fucking green eyes.

"This is the day of your birth, is it not?"

Lancelot lowers himself to his seat, rubbing hands over his arms, the light armor he wears thin enough that he can feel the pads of his fingers and the callouses they are definitely holding onto now. His blades whisper to him, and he touches the base of one, soothing its blood lust with his promise of _soon_. "How d'you know that?" He won't admit that he's totally forgotten. He knew it was coming soon, or had passed recently, or something - his mother had been the only one to make anything out of that. Sarmatians didn't give two shits about birthdays - they only cared about horses and learning to ride before you could walk. Or giving in to the cursed Romans and their bargain.

"Tristan."

"Of fucking course."

Arthur's sigh is heavy and echoes through the small clearing Lancelot has decamped to. "Being your friend, I would have liked to have known."

"And being my friend, you need to respect my choice not to give a toss." Lancelot snatches the new bottle of wine back and glugs more before Arthur can complain. "I use these," he touches the hilts at his neck, "I bleed for you, and I kill foreigners. That's all that really matters, right?"

"You know I don't think that way, Lancelot ap Ban."

"I don't care how you think, Lucius Artorius Castus," he spits back and stands finally, wavering in his drunkenness. Since when had he become such a damn lightweight? "I am here, doing my service, and if I want to ignore something that causes me pain, I will do so. _Especially_ if it has nothing to do with the Empire or Woads or the Romans or you." He takes two steps to Arthur's right and sits hard, his booted feet not agreeing to do what he wants them to, which is to take him away from Arthur and his confusing, fucking strength and heat and his damned eyes. 

_His mother, rubbing her long fingered hand (like his) over his hair, touching his cheeks, telling him he couldn't make her more proud. The horse his father brings him, his first, the one that belongs to only him, on his tenth name-day. His sister and brothers and the feast they'd had_

and he laughs and Arthur stands and helps him up and they face each other, toe to toe, and Arthur puts a large hand on Lancelot's neck and the hurt in that broad face is enough to undo Lancelot - almost. 

Another star rips through the heavens but Lancelot doesn't see it this time, his eyes only for the man that stands with him, his own sword slung across his back, the hilt rising as Lancelot's do, over his head, shadowing their faces from the light in the sky that is brighter than the sun.


End file.
